


It's A Wonderful Life, Stanley Uris

by brittaniansun



Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Asexual/Aromantic Patricia Blum Uris, But also, Canonical Character Death, Hence the title, Multi, Poly Losers - Freeform, QP StanPat, Temporary Character Death, vaguely based off of it's a wonderful life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittaniansun/pseuds/brittaniansun
Summary: Stanley Uris takes a bath. He expects to never wake up from that bath. Nothing ever happens as expected for the Losers Club, though, so after falling into what he believed was his final rest, he opens his eyes.And realizes that he's still dead, but he can see everything that's happening. And for some reason, there's a man in his bathroom?
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Don Hagarty/Adrian Mellon, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: It Rare Pair Secret Santa 2020





	It's A Wonderful Life, Stanley Uris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).



> I hope this lives up to your hopes and expectations! I'm sorry it's not quite finished, but part 2 will be up as soon as I can finish it!

Steam filled the bathroom like fog rolling in on a cold September evening. Memories of his childhood came by in flashes. Each one felt like a fresh papercut being revealed. He undressed methodically. First his glasses, resting on the sink, right along the edge. Next was his cardigan. Then his socks. Pants, shirt, undershirt, underwear. All folded neatly in a perfect square on top of the toilet seat. He fiddled with the ball of socks, unsure where the best place would be. Remnants of fear and anxiety- from childhood, from right now, from what he knew was to come- felt like lightning manifesting in the very tips of his fingers. He took a breath.

The tub was full, now; he didn’t have any time to waste. He set the ball of socks on top of the rest of the clothes, perfect center. He took a moment to look at his glasses and his watch. His wedding ring. He shook his head and walked toward the tub. He fiddled with the knobs, turning the water off, and checked one last time to see that he had all the supplies he needed. Straight razor, check. Soap, check. Confidence and surety… Well. Another memory rushed through and cut deeper than the others. It reminded him of standing outside That House while his friends looked at him, waiting, and he couldn’t just make himself take that one step. He hadn’t ever had confidence or surety, at least not in himself. That was what the bath was for.

He forced himself to take that step, this time around. Except now, he knew where that step was taking him. Maybe it was the knowing that made it that little bit easier. As a child, he never knew much of anything; it’s why he was always so scared. He couldn’t take that final step into that house because he didn’t know what he was going to see. He didn’t know if his friends would be okay. He didn’t know if he would be coming out of that house at all, much less dead or alive. As he slid into the tub, arms braced on either side, it was that surety that kept him breathing. He knew he would not make it out of this bathtub alive. 

_ How long has it been? _

_ A pause. _

_ A long time. 27 years. _

_ It’s come back, hasn’t It? _

Mike. 

He called him. He remembered. He  _ stayed.  _ It made so much sense. Mike had always been the bravest of the guys, really. He’d been through so much just for the color of his skin, before he ever even met them. It was just their fears made physical; It wasn’t anything Mike hadn’t had to deal with his whole life, at only 13.

He took a breath, closed his eyes. Made himself remember.

Beverly.

She’d always been beautiful. He’d noticed, even when they were kids, even before they were friends. Before Bill ever kissed her at that stupid play in the 3rd grade. Stan had always noticed her. Had a bit of a crush, really, but never anything substantial. Not anywhere close to what they had that Summer. He remembered cleaning her bathroom, being sure to wipe off every speck of blood he could find. He remembered wanting to be brave for her, although he knew she could take care of herself. He hadn’t realized until just now, but he’d missed her every day since she left for Portland.

Patty was so much like her, he noticed now. He huffed a laugh at the thought. 

Ben.

Sweet, sweet Ben. He’d been overlooked for his weight and for his looks by others, but even at 13, Stan recognized how attracted to him that he was. It was hard, knowing at such a young age that he was attracted to both boys and girls. Being raised in Derry in the 80s didn’t make it any better. But Ben… it was more than just his eyes or his cute little nose or the way his hugs could fix anything. Ben always made sure they were fed, that they were taken care of. Ben gave and gave and gave and never expected anything in return. He saw the way he looked at Beverly, the way that he turned the other cheek so that Bill could be there instead. He’d never done anything for himself, really. 

Stan wasn’t doing this for himself. He was doing it for them. He picked up the razor.

Bill.

They’d known each other their whole lives, pretty much. They’d become friends in 2nd grade, paired up for some activity he couldn’t be bothered to remember. He’d loved him. Oh, had he loved him. He had loved all of them, of course, and he still does now, but Bill was their leader. He was the first. He was how Stan  _ knew.  _ Bill was the reason for just about all of it. He’d been the one to search for It, taking revenge for Georgie (and oh, little Georgie, taken far too soon, he was doing this for him, too), the one he had sworn--

Pain. He winced, and he forced himself to remember again.

_ I swear, Bill. _

Eddie.

The smallest of them. The most  _ ferocious.  _ Eddie was like a chihuahua, really, and he can’t help but laugh at the thought. Tiny, shaking at the world before him, but willing to attack at a moment’s notice. He’d been so brave that Summer; when it comes to Eddie and that time, Stan is so filled with the nostalgic kind of pride that he imagines older siblings often feel. He’d stood up to his mother and he’d thrown away her pills and he’d faced It with a broken arm on top of it all. He’d gone back to his mother and he’d picked up those pills, but Stan could understand going back to those toxic comforts after what they had gone through. He’d done the same. He’d loved all of them, just as he loved Bill, and he loved Eddie, and he loved-

Richie.

His best fucking friend. He’d known Richie since they were in diapers. Stan’s mother had cared for Richie whenever Richie’s parents had to be out of town for work, and Richie’s mom had cared for Stan whenever Stan’s parents had some elaborate religious event that wouldn’t be entirely appropriate for a baby. Richie was loud and impulsive where Stan was quiet and contemplative. Stan called Richie out on his bullshit and Richie called him out on his  _ (not every leaf is fucking poison ivy, stanley).  _ Most people who met them assumed they didn’t fit, but they were so wrong. They balanced each other in the best ways, and they had more in common than any of the rest of the Losers. Stan was the youngest of the Losers by a year, but Richie never made him feel excluded for it. In high school, Stan skipped a year, and Richie helped him catch up on anything he needed because Richie was the smartest of all of them, and he also had the most patience It never seemed like it, what with his loud mouth and no filter, but it was all just a front to cover who he really was. Stan had always seen past it.

He smiled at the memories, comforted in the knowledge that by doing this, he’d be saving them all. He slumped against the side of the tub and laid his head on his arm. He could feel the blood drip drip dripping and he could feel darkness taking over. He closed his eyes and he fell asleep.

_ The turtle couldn’t save me, this time. _

* * *

He wakes up.

It’s the last thing he expected to happen, but with the shatter of glass and an ear-piercing scream, his eyes shoot open and he’s suddenly wide awake. He shoots out of the bathtub, but the water doesn’t move. His wife doesn’t see him as she trembles in shock, staring in disbelief at-

His lifeless body.

He’s dead, which he should be relieved for. It was the goal, after all. But something in him is horrified at the knowledge, feels like he still somehow failed. At what, he’s not entirely sure.

“When the turtle told me I had something to do, this isn’t exactly what I expected,” a voice says. He startles again, and he’s sure he would’ve busted his ass had he been alive, what with the water and the- well. He comes face to face with a man, younger than him by about 10 years or so, a smirk on his face and uncertainty in his eyes. 

“Who are you?”

“Adrian Mellon,” the man says, holding out a hand to shake, “Who are you?”

He takes the hand and shakes it. “Stanley Uris.”

“Well, Stanley Uris,” Adrian says, taking a quick round of the bathroom, “What the hell do you think the turtle wants here?”

“The turtle?”

Wait.

_ The turtle couldn’t save me, this time,  _ he remembers thinking, before he died. And another time before that, 27 years earlier:  _ The turtle couldn’t help us.  _

Just flashes of thoughts, the kind that you think for a moment and forget the next. They’re important, he knows, but what do they mean?

“Yeah, man, I wish I knew,” Adrian huffs, “The last thing I remember after I was murdered by a fucking clown of all things was seeing this giant ass turtle. Next thing I knew I was here, watching you kill yourself.”

Stan huffs a laugh, despite himself. Then his blood runs cold. “Did you just say you were murdered by a clown?”

Adrian’s face falls. “Yeah. Didn’t think it would be the clown, at first. I mean, growing up in Derry, I always assumed it would be a hate crime that took me, but this?”

Derry.  _ Derry. Growing up in Derry.  _

“It got you.” 

He needs to sit down. He needs to get out of this bathroom. He needs to tell his wife everything is going to be okay. He needs to put some fucking clothes on. He needs to fucking leave.

_ Your job is not over, Stanley Uris,  _ he hears. And then he blacks out.

* * *

_ Oh, Stanley,  _

Patricia cries, 

_ Why? _

* * *

_ Where’s Stanley? _

* * *

_ The way he died… _

_ it was-- _

* * *

_ It got Stan. _

* * *

_ You don’t have to be so… _

_ sad. _

* * *

_ Thanks for showing up, Stan. _

* * *

He gasps awake again. He’s clothed this time. He remembers flashes of a turtle. A galaxy. An assignment.

_ You must see, Stanley. _

He can’t remember what he’s supposed to see, exactly, but…

He’s in Derry. The Kissing Bridge. Adrian standing next to him, pained.

“This is where it happened.”

Stan follows his line of sight. There’s nothing there, and yet…

The turtle had shown him everything. The way Don and Adrian, innocent and in love, had been so mercilessly harassed and beaten. Adrian, tossed over the bridge. Sent to his death. To It.

The Turtle’s brother.

But the timing isn’t right, for that. It’s too soon. He’s not sure how he knows it. Something to do with the Turtle, most likely. The weather, too. He can’t feel it, but it’s cold. Freezing, actually. School children are walking home, bundled up in their coats and hats and scarves. It’s not snowing and it’s not cold enough for the water under the bridge to be frozen over. It’s probably late Fall, maybe even early Spring. It’s hard to say.

Except a group of kids walks past them, and he knows exactly who they are, and suddenly he knows exactly when he is.

It’s October of 1984 and Eddie is about to be pushed over the bridge by Henry Bowers. The kids who just walked past had narrowly escaped Henry’s wrath not moments before, and it’s just Stan and Eddie walking home because Richie and Bill had gotten in trouble for… something. He’s not entirely sure of what.

“I remember this,” Stan says.

“What?”

“It’s October, 1984. Me and my friend Eddie, we were walking home from school when the school bully decided to take his anger out on us. He pushed Eddie over the bridge and I had to jump in and save him. His mom never let him learn how to swim.”

Something like realization darkens Adrian’s face. A memory, maybe. “Stan, I don’t think-” he snaps his mouth shut. “I think I know why I’m here.”

Stan’s about to ask, desperate for any kind of answer when he spots Eddie. He smiles at the sight of him. They’re only 8; Eddie hasn’t quite turned 9, yet. He spent that birthday in the hospital with pneumonia, one of the only times his mother had been right to take him. Stan had been right there with him.

Except little 8-year-old Stan isn’t here. He’s starting to think he has his memory wrong, that maybe it’s another day entirely when he spots Henry storming over. It happens in a matter of seconds: one moment Eddie is walking home by himself, minding his own business, and the next he’s falling over the bridge and into the water below.

He doesn’t even think. He jumps over, follows Eddie down. He grabs him, or he tries. He can’t. He’s not really here, he’s just a ghost reliving a memory. Except this memory is wrong because he’s not here. No one but him is trying to save Eddie, and Eddie is trying to fight but he keeps getting water in his lungs and he’s panicking and the coat he’s wearing is dragging him down--

* * *

He blacks out. 

He hears a voice, but it’s not his. 

It’s familiar. 

Not the turtle. Not Adrian.

_ You’re braver than you think. _

* * *

He’s standing in front of a grave. It’s fresh. The headstone has just been put in. The plot is small. Too small.

_ Edward Francis Kaspbrak _

_ November 2, 1975-October 18, 1984 _

_ Beloved son and friend. _

He was buried right next to his father.

Adrian places a hand on his shoulder, and he can’t keep it in any longer. He collapses to the ground and sobs.

* * *

“Why did you kill yourself?”

They’re sitting under a tree by Eddie’s grave. Whatever magic is causing this, it’s decided to leave them there for the time being. In the meantime, they’ve been talking. Stan explained It and the Losers; Adrian told him about Don and why he thought he was there. Something about a guardian angel. Stan is still processing.

“I told you,” Stan says, “It was the best way to ensure they would survive It the second time. If we’re not all there, they’ll never survive it. But if I’m there…”

“Yeah, I got that,” Adrian dismisses with a wave of his hand, “You’re not brave enough to face It again, blah blah blah, some kind of magic bond you and your childhood friends have will protect you. What I’m not understanding is what makes you think you’re a coward.”

Stan smiles ruefully, “You don’t know me, kid. You have no idea.”

Adrian considers for a moment. “I think I do, though.”

“What?”

“Have an idea, that is. About you. Who you are.”

Stan looks at him for the first time in a while. Since the bathroom, probably. He’d mentioned that he was born in 1987; almost exactly 10 years younger than Stan. It’s clear in his face how young he is. 31 years old, when he died. Despite the bravado, there’s a sadness there.

He reminds him a lot of Richie.

“It’s hard for me to remember it all, but…” he licks his lips, “I’ve seen it all. From the moment you were born until…”

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he comments drily. 

Adrian laughs, empty and broken. “You are just like Don. That dry ass sense of humor.”

Stan hums. “You remind me of Richie.”

Adrian nods. “You love him, don’t you? You love all of them.”

Stan nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“So why, man? I’ve seen your whole life. We literally just saw the consequences of you not being there. You’re not a fucking coward, and you love these people more than you’ve ever loved anyone. So why the fuck are you here?”

He can feel the tears coming again. He shakes his head. “My love for them has never been enough,” he says, “It wasn’t enough then, and it isn’t enough now.”

Adrian rolls his eyes and scowls. “Man, fuck you-”

* * *

He doesn’t ever hear the rest of that sentence.

_ Seven,  _ he hears distantly. 

It rings in his head and echoes. 

_ That’s the magic number. _

* * *

_ There has to be seven of us. _

He’s sitting at the table.

Richie is to his right. Eddie to his left. Clockwise, it’s Beverly, Bill, Mike, and Ben. They’re making a toast. They can’t see him.

Adrian can. He’s standing behind him, a soothing presence as he watches his friends.

“I mean it’s weird, right?” Ben says, and Stanley’s blood runs cold. “Now that we’re all here, everything just comes back faster and faster. I mean, all of it.”

“Yeah, do you know when Mike called me, I threw up?” Richie says. He’s fiddling with his hands. “Isn’t that weird?”

_ He’s nervous. _

He wants to reach over and take his hand, like when they were little. Before they would get in trouble for things like that.

“I feel fine now! I feel very relieved to be here with you guys.” Richie continues and then pauses. “Why is everyone looking at me like that?”

“When Mike called me I crashed my car.” Eddie rushes out.

Bill’s eyebrows shoot up at the same time Stan’s does. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, man, I hear you. My heart was literally pounding right out of my chest.” Ben says.

“I thought it was only me,” Beverly says. Stan doesn’t like how…  _ timid  _ she seems.

“It’s like it was pure f-f-f-” Bill stutters, and he can’t make himself say it.

_ Fear. _

“It’s fear,” Mike finishes for him. The Losers were the only ones Bill let do that for him; anyone else, including his parents, had never been allowed. “What you felt.”

“Why’d we all f… feel like that, Mike?”

_ It. _

“You remember something we don’t, don’t you?”

_ They don’t remember. They don’t remember It. Why don’t they remember? _

“Something happens to you, when you leave this town. The farther away, the hazier it all gets. Me… I never left,” Mike explains, “So, yeah. I remember. I remember all of it.”

Stan looks at Beverly. “Pennywise,” she whispers, and her fear crawls up his throat, making him shudder.

She’s the first to remember, of course. She was the only other one to be caught.

They start freaking out. Eddie takes out his inhaler, Richie is stunned into silence, Bill demands an explanation. Mike pulls out a journal, frantically flipping through.

“A week ago, a man named Adrian Mellon was slaughtered,” Mike explains, and Stan can feel Adrian flinch from behind him. Stan reaches behind him and grabs his hand. Mike’s explanation gets faster, more frantic, more desperate. He’s being interrupted, talked over. Ben is pleading for everyone to listen, Bill is desperate for answers, Richie and Eddie are so struck with fear they’ve begun to bounce off of the other. Beverly is silent.

Stan can do nothing but watch.

_ That’s the way it’s supposed to be,  _ a voice rings in the back of his mind,  _ Seven. _

“Well that shit got dark fast,” Richie mutters, “Thanks, Mike.”

Eddie’s hands tremble as he cracks open his fortune cookie. He scoffs, “My fortune cookie just says  _ could. _ ”

_ No. No, no, no… _

They begin opening the fortune cookies.  _ Guess. It. Cut. Not.  _ They try to rearrange the words, figure out the puzzle, except they’re missing a piece. Beverly can only stare at hers in horror. Stan has a feeling he knows why.

The guys argue over one another, Mike insisting It is messing with them, Ben pleading for them to listen again. Eddie and Richie can’t help but talk over one another, their anxieties expelling arguments that make no sense but offer some level of comfort. Bill notices Beverly’s silence.

“Bev?”

She’s crying as she hands over her slip.

_ Stanley. _

He feels something like panic bubble up in his chest as Bill rearranges the words.  _ Guess Stanley Could Not Cut It.  _

How fucking hilarious.

He hears Adrian muttering something behind him but he doesn’t actually listen to the words. His hands tremble as he lifts them to adjust his reading glasses, and he’s shocked to feel that his cheeks are wet.

Oh. He’s crying.

For some reason-- and he’ll never be able to begin to explain why-- he starts to laugh. It starts as a huff but then it keeps building. It turns into a giggle, high pitched and unstable. More tears. He covers his mouth with his hand, but the laughs keep getting louder and louder and more and more frequent. 

And then the fortune cookies come to life.

He laughs so hard there’s no noise coming out of his mouth, so much that he can’t tell if they’re even laughs anymore. His whole body starts to tremble and he feels cold. It’s the first thing he’s felt since he died, a thought that only makes it worse. He wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into biceps and nails making crescent moon marks in the skin beneath his cardigan. 

Ben hides behind Eddie and Richie is screaming by himself in a corner and Bill is trying to bat everything away and Beverly is just so damn quiet and Mike is trying, trying so damn hard to convince them it’s not real.

But it is, isn’t it? Just because no one else can see it, no one else is experiencing it… It’s still real. He knows it is, because he can fucking see it and he is experiencing it and so are his best fucking friends in the whole world, six of the only people he’s ever truly loved, and they can’t see him to know that he’s there experiencing it with them.

Mike picks up a chair and he starts rocking back and forth, back and forth. Mike is screaming,  _ it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real  _ and Stan is pretty sure it’s more for himself than the others, at this point. How has no one--

Ah.

Mike puts the chair down and the waitress walks back in, calm as can be, albeit incredibly concerned. Richie asks for the check. He’s stopped rocking, but he’s still shaking and he still feels so cold. He’s not laughing anymore, either, but the tears are still streaming down his face and he can’t stop them.

He doesn’t remember much, after that. He thinks Adrian helped him up, though he isn’t sure. He vaguely hears Richie screaming at some kid, Eddie shouting. An argument. A phone call.

_ Hello? _

And of course, he knows that voice. He knows that voice because he loves her and he’s been married to her for 15 years now and they were supposed to go to Buenos Aires together, but here he is and there she is and it’s all his own fault, isn’t it?

“Stan?” Adrian calls, snapping him out of his dissociative state. “Are you okay?”

Stan shakes his head. No. No, he’s not fucking okay. 

“No,” he says with a wry twist of his lips, “I’m dead.”

Adrian scoffs. “I hate that you’re this fucking funny, man. Who let this shit happen?”

Stan shrugs. He watches as his wife gives the news, scrunches his eyebrows together as Beverly whispers  _ in the bathtub  _ and the way Ben is the only other one who seems to notice. He so desperately wants to talk to her, the way they didn’t have much time for as teenagers before she moved. It hits him, suddenly, that he only really knew her for 6 months. Sure, they technically grew up together. As small as Derry is, it was impossible to not know of her. But they were only friends for such a short amount of time. And yet…

They went through so much together. All of them.

Adrian tenses and grabs his shoulder. “Stan, I-”

* * *

There’s a ringing in his ears.

_ Fear. _

* * *

He’s remembering.

Again and 

again and 

again,

And more and 

more and 

more.

* * *

_ And you will all live to _

* * *

He met her on a warm Spring evening. 

“Patricia Blum,” she’d introduced herself, “I’m not interested.”

He grinned. “Stanley Uris,” he responded in kind, “Neither am I.”

* * *

_ Grow and thrive and _

* * *

She didn’t feel attracted to people, she’d told him. Didn’t want a romantic relationship, didn’t really want sex.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in love,” he’d said, but something deep down insisted he was wrong. He’d loved many people. Perhaps even…

Six?

* * *

_ Lead happy lives until _

* * *

They loved each other, in their own way. She was his best friend, and he was hers. It was easier to marry than to not, they both agreed.

“Tax benefits,” she’d commented once. He nodded in agreement. He was an accountant, after all. And a successful one, at that. Especially for their age.

“What do you think about kids?” he asked her.

* * *

_ Old age takes you _

* * *

“I want kids,” she admitted.

“Your own?” he asked, “Or adopted?”

She hummed. “My own, I think.”

* * *

_ Back _

* * *

“I wouldn’t be opposed to adoption,” she’d said late one night.

They were at the tail end of their 30s, and they’d tried and tried and tried but they just couldn’t--

He smiled at her. “If that’s what you want. I’m not picky.”

She nodded. “Adoption, then.”

“Adoption.”

* * *

_ To _

* * *

The process was long and arduous. 5 years later, and their efforts had yet to yield any results. He was beginning to think that maybe--

* * *

_ The-- _

* * *

\--maybe it’s just him.

* * *

They’re making their way through weeds almost as tall as them, in some spots. Even in the early morning hours, it’s clear that no one has been through here in an extraordinarily long time.

_ (Perhaps not since they had last--) _

They finally arrive at the clubhouse. They can’t see it, because it’s underground, and the hatch is covered in dirt and leaves. But instinctually, he knows it’s there.

He wonders if Mike came back here, alone.

Ben is, of course, the one to find it. He built the thing, after all. They descend, one after another, into the dark. Stan follows, and he’s sure Adrian is right behind. They’re all lost in the memories--

_ Get out of the hammock, Rich! _

_ Florida-- _

_ Old ladies! _

_ Why do you have to be so-- _

“--sad?” 

His head snaps up, launched into the present once more. He’s losing track of time more and more often, not realizing when she slips into trances brought on by the past. All he knows are the flashes of memory in one moment and the harsh slap of reality in the next. He finds them all with plastic hair nets on their heads or in their hands, looking at an old rusted container in Bill’s hands.

More and more flashes of memory speed by him, so fast he can’t even hear any snippets or grasp onto any threads. He’s lost in time, certain he’s never going to return, and he’s not going to be able to  _ save them-- _

_ We have to split up. _

Wait.

What did he just say?

“You’re finally seeing it, Stanley,” the turtle-- Maturin, his name is Maturin-- says. “You finally see.”

“What?” he asks, somewhat dumbly. He’s still processing. He’s not doing a great job of it.

“You have to save them.”

“Wha-  _ me? _ ”

“Yes, you. You’re the last link. It has to be you. It will be you.”

“But I’m not-”

“-brave enough?” Adrian says. “You are, though. Don’t you remember? You saved Eddie’s life once already. You can do it again, for all of them.”

Stan closes his eyes. Breathes in, out, in out. “I’m scared,” he admits.

“Good,” Adrian says, “You fucking should be.”

And

then

he 

_ falls. _


End file.
